


While we may

by i_claudia



Series: summer pornathon 2014 [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Summer Pornathon 2014, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s raining when he comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While we may

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge 2 from Summer Pornathon 2014: Secrets and Lies

It’s raining when he comes. When he finds her, slipping through the narrow door to her room, it’s clear his oilcloth has not kept him dry.

"You’re late," Hunith says. She’s been expecting him all week, kept craning her head out the windows as she pounded herbs for Gaius, but he’s still managed to startle her. He always does.

"Bit difficult to fly against a storm wind," he replies, water dripping off of every inch of him.

"That’s no excuse, Balinor," she says, but her lips betray her with a smile, and when she opens her arms he comes to her, crushes her close. The rainwater soaks her, though she doesn’t care two figs about that when she can bury her face in his shoulder, feel the press of his lips against her head. She runs her hands down his back, and when he sighs she pulls back, still smiling. "Off," she instructs, plucking at his sleeve. "You’re ruining my dress."

"Is that what we’re calling it?" he says, pursing his lips against his own grin, but he shrugs the oilcloth off obediently. "Seems a bit flimsy," he adds, voice muffled as he pulls his tunic over his head. "Your brother might object if you wore it in public."

"You mean you’d object," she teases. "Gaius would raise his eyebrow, like—yes," she says, laughing as he emerges from the confines of the tunic with his eyebrow cocked outrageously. "Exactly like that." She sits on the cot, stretching back to watch him shuck his trousers. It’s true that the shift she’s wearing is hardly appropriate: it’s thin, and sticks to her skin where it’s wet, smooth over the swell of her belly and her breasts, her nipples dark through the pale fabric. He stares when she stretches her hands over her head, one leg still caught in his trousers, looking charmingly ridiculous in nothing but his bare skin and candlelight, his cock sticking out like a standard.

She slides one foot toward her body and crooks a finger at him, impatient.

He goes. "Gods, you’re beautiful," he breathes, trailing a line of kisses up her throat from her collar until he finds her mouth. His stubble is nearly a beard, and it scratches at her, his cock hot and stiff when she reaches for it. He kisses harder when she strokes, and gods, she wants him. She hardly ever has him—it seems the whole world gets hold of him before she’s allowed close, dragons and kings all with an iron grip that’s meant to leave her in the cold.

They aren’t meant to have this. She’s told herself it doesn’t matter when it’s her bed he seeks in the dark, but the knowledge doubles the ache she carries when he rides away, borne beyond her reach by wind and fire.

She gasps when he slides a hand up her thigh beneath the shift, pushing it up until it bunches at her waist; when he runs his fingers down the crease of her hip, stroking the narrow strip of skin where her leg meets her cunt, she groans.

"Hush," he murmurs, but his touch is sliding toward desperate, his voice uneven. He doesn’t stop her when she whimpers at the brush of his fingers against her slick folds, though she bites her lip against the noise. When he slips a finger into her, she reaches blindly for his shoulder to tug him toward her, demanding more.

"It’s not your finger I’m wanting," she tells him, breathless, and it’s his turn to groan, pulling his hand away to smear the wet across her skin and push his cock into her instead: deliberately slow, utterly unbearable. She tilts her hips to meet him, wrapping her legs around him as he grinds deep, and both of them are too loud now. They catch each other’s moans with open kisses, without finesse, but the rocking squeak of the cot betrays them—it’s not enough to stop them, not now, not when he’s fucking her exactly right, both of them split open by it and spilling against each other. She matches his thrusts, scores his shoulders with her nails, and when he shudders she catches him in a last furious kiss as he shakes apart, rocking up against him until he pulls out, breath ragged, fills her with his fingers instead, pushing as fast and deep as she needs until she falls apart beneath him, the rest of the world vanished for this one stolen moment.


End file.
